


Schadenfreude

by scissorphishe



Category: Trust Me
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 22:44:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scissorphishe/pseuds/scissorphishe





	Schadenfreude

Mason was an artist once. Not professionally, but sort of in spirit. He's been putting his skills to practical use for so long now, he's almost forgotten what it felt like to do real art, pure, just for the pleasure (pain, beauty, truth) of it.

Of course his very serious artistic college self would object to that just for the sake of arguing over what constitutes art and who is he to judge which art is "real" and which isn't, and maybe ad art is special because of the irony inherent in exploiting the deepest highest truest expression of humanity to dupe people into conforming to the materialistic culture of shallow consumerism...but of course it's not like Serious Artist Mason wouldn't have called Now-Mason a sellout anyway. Because he doesn't advertise _ironically_. But then Serious Artist Mason didn't have a family to support, so he should just shut up because irony doesn't pay the mortgage or put food on the table. And maybe this is a sign of how screwed up the world of corporate advertising really is, that Mason is having a philosophical-argument-turned-snipefest with his past self.

But something of the deeper sentiment remains with him. He finds himself studying Simon, exploring the contours of his profile with his eyes and doodling them in the margins of his meeting notes. He thinks his Serious Artist self was kind of right, in the end: the art in advertising is so perfect -- actors and models indistinguishable, all with thick makeup masking already pristine skin -- it's stripped of its humanity. Just empty aesthetic perfection. But Simon is no model, god knows; he's got scruffy hair and a weirdly large forehead and that snobby, sneering mouth. In the midst of all the surreally bland imagery of advertising, Mason supposes it stands to reason that such an obvious sore thumb is oddly refreshing. That's what he tells himself, anyway, because why else would he find Simon Cochran so appealing?

Maybe it's just more of advertising's manipulation and truth-stretching -- the way you're snared in such a tangle of insistently mixed messages, telling you what you want and what you don't want and what you shouldn't want and what you should want but don't, you end up hardly knowing what you truly want, as if you're no longer quite sure who you are.

That's how Mason feels now. He tries to convince himself that he knows who he is -- Mason McGuire, ad man, creative director, family man, husband, father. Responsible, straight and narrow. With emphasis on the "straight."

He is not attracted to Simon Cochran. God, _Simon Cochran!_ Especially now that Simon is basically his boss. He is straight and he has a wife and two children and a writing partner who by rights should really be first in line if Mason is actually going to start liking men. Which he's not. And certainly not Simon Cochran, fucking sexy bastard though he be...okay. Mason should probably accept that this battle is lost.

As if to take him up on his newly accepted attraction, Simon suddenly catches his eye and calls him over. It's the end of yet another meeting that Mason stared and sketched all through. Mason scrambles to hide his doodled-on notes, then follows Simon into his office, unable to decide if he's most nervous, eager, annoyed, or...intrigued.

Simon closes the door behind them and goes to lean back against the front of his desk, staring at Mason. Mason swallows.

"I know you're staring," Simon says. His face is unreadable. Mason's heart speeds up.

"I know _you're_ staring," he attempts, trying to calm his nerves.

"Jackass, I mean you've _been_ staring. In all the meetings. Don't think I haven't noticed."

"I -- uh -- that's -- "

Simon studies him, and Mason quails, still stuttering, under his gaze. "I'd ask you why," says Simon, "but you know, even I'm not _that_ cruel. And it's not like I don't already know, anyway."

Mason isn't sure if he's still breathing. The room seems to have gotten very warm and he doesn't know where to look or what to say or anything, not even whether he wants to steal a glance at Simon or avoid his gaze at all costs.

He steals a glance.

Simon is looking at him with a challenging gleam in his eyes, the one that says _Go on, coward, I bet you can't do it. I_ bet _you can't_, and says, "Fuck me."

This is entirely inappropriate, of course. Simon has authority over Mason and therefore by rights should not so much as request, much less demand, sexual favors. Everybody knows that. But Mason also knows that Simon doesn't literally mean it like that, that this is just his cocky way of asking, that as annoying and stuck-up as Simon is, he would never -- whatever the word would be. He can't quite bring himself to think the word "rape," because...he doesn't know. That's not what this is. He doesn't know _what_ the hell this is, actually. "Seduction" is almost as scary-sounding: he's not some anonymous guy Simon's picking up in a bar or something. This isn't a stupid porno. This isn't an episode of Queer As Folk with the hot slutty star fucking the nameless coworker on his advertising-hotshot desk. Apparently Mason knows quite a lot of things this isn't, even though he still doesn't know what the fuck this _is_.

Except, yes, maybe this actually is that Queer As Folk episode after all. Because Simon's still staring at him, gleaming, intense, challenge unwavering, and in spite of Simon's unpopularity and abrasiveness, there are times when he really does know how to sell himself, and right now Mason wants to buy. God, he wants.

And with that, they eclipse, two bodies merging into one silhouette. At least Mason supposes that's how they'd look from the outside (oh god, please don't let anyone see); as a participant, though, he finds it anything but flat and dark. Everything is startlingly three-dimensional and -- well, sensual, full of smell and touch and taste. He's running his hands over skin, muscle, hair, that before now he has only ever run his eyes over. This tactile exploration is so different from the visual -- so solid, so close, so shockingly real. So strangely human. No longer is this Simon's smirking mouth: this is now Simon's warm and probing mouth, surprisingly soft for one that harbors so sharp a tongue. So long and wet and lithe and _skillful_ a tongue.

And that's all it takes. The period of tentative exploration is over. Now they mean business.

Mason shoves Simon down on his desk. This would feel completely surreal but for the fact that he's aching for it now, has no patience for carefulness or second thoughts or the obviously lacking common sense (_you're about to fuck your boss are you out of your mind?!_).

Fingers fumble at zippers and belt buckles, and suddenly reality kicks in a little. Mason pauses and hisses, "The door-- " and Simon whispers back, "Already locked it. Now get your pants off and your arse up here."

The latter takes some figuring out: the desk is not made for two grown men to climb onto and lie on, and Mason accidentally knees Simon's fingers and kicks his leg on his way up. Or maybe sort of accidentally-on-purpose, because he can still feel the sting of their post-Buick confrontation, can still taste the anger of the battle over the beer campaign, remembers the thousand moments of irritation and fury and pettiness and conceit and bitterness and bickering and general pissed-off-ed-ness that he and Simon have shared over the years. Oh, is he going to give it to Simon _good_. Just as soon as he can finish climbing onto this desk.

Finally Mason makes it up onto the desk, and shoves Simon around until he's positioned on top of Simon as comfortably as he's going to get. "Spit," says Simon, and though Mason is far from eager to spare Simon discomfort, he remembers what Simon said to him earlier -- _even I'm not that cruel_ \-- and complies. It seems a little gross at first, but then, no less so than fucking Simon Cochran, when he really thinks about it. He wonders fleetingly if Simon's presence of mind suggests prior experience doing this sort of thing, rough and impromptu; if his own failure to think of it reveals his complete lack of experience; and, if so, whether he should be embarrassed or glad.

And then he catches sight again of Simon prone and waiting beneath him, and all that idle curiosity vanishes, to be replaced with thoughts less cerebral than visceral: sheer heedless want with no words.

As Mason pushes slowly into Simon, Simon's breath catches sharply; he arches and groans, whether in pain or pleasure Mason's not sure. It's probably both. Mason leans into Simon's ear and breathes, "That's for your assholeishness during the beer campaign," and pushes a bit harder.

"Funny you should mention assholeishness now," says Simon, gasping. Typical Simon, maintaining just enough composure to make immature jokes even while he's being fucked past the edge of pain by his subordinate. (_Funny you should mention_ sub_ordinates_, pipes up a little voice in Mason's brain, sounding far too pleased with the little submissive whine in Simon's voice, but Mason squashes it emphatically.)

"Funnier still that I should mention pricks, because you are one," he retorts instead. It is quite possible he is acting like a thirteen-year-old boy, but on second thought, that's really not the worst of his worries right now. Or the worst of what would be his worries if he were actually worrying, rather than indulging heedlessly in this strange new breathtaking desktop pursuit, pleasure and punishment twined.

He speeds up, faster and rougher, practically slamming Simon into the desktop now, and Simon, fittingly, is moaning with each thrust, in nasal guttural gasps that carry that delicious hint of a whine. At each moan Mason tallies -- silently because he hasn't got much breath to spare anymore -- _This one's for the Buick fight, this one's for not quitting your job here like everyone thought you would, this one's just for being smarmy infuriating Simon Cochran_, and at the last one Simon gives a particularly ardent groan, wincing at the impact with the desktop. "Sorry," says Mason in a tone that says clearly he's not sorry at all. "The desk's hard, you know."

Simon twists his head around and gives him some kind of combination of snarl and smirk. "What a coincidence," he gasps, "We fit right in."

Jeez, the guy still manages to snark at him. Mason can't help being grudgingly impressed, even as he moves to push Simon ever harder.

And then, in the best turn of events yet, Simon starts begging. As soon as the first "please" passes Simon's lips, Mason slows down. This is delightful and he is going to enjoy it for as long as possible. How many times has he wished he could deny Simon something he really, really wanted? How fantastic did it feel when he was able to do that? That time Mason's group wrested the Buick account from Simon's grabby little hands -- Mason loved it. Of course, then Simon had to go and ruin it by picking a fight. So now that Mason finally has this beautiful opportunity to torment Simon, he is going to take his sweet fucking time.

He savors the sound of Simon's groans of frustration. So this is what schadenfreude is like at its best -- no wonder Simon's such a prick all the time, if others can suffer so deliciously. Mason tries to see how loud he can make Simon beg, moving slower and longer and sweeter so Simon keens, sharp yet muffled with his face pressed into the desk, and then Mason pauses for a moment that stretches into a minute so agonizing that Simon finally yells, "Dammit, Mason!" and tries to writhe even while pinned under him. Mason relishes Simon's hot frustration and his own soaring power, and chides serenely, "_Volume_, Simon. People can hear you."

"Right, 'cause it's so unrealistic for me to be yelling at you," Simon snaps, ragged and riled and needy.

"Give me a raise and I'll pick up the pace," Mason says, half joking just to piss Simon off.

"Fuck you, I'll promote you," Simon snarls, "not that you'll care, will you, greedy bastard, you just can't stand working under me."

"Who's working under who _now_?" Mason says, leering a little, and with that he stops stalling, slams Simon into the desk, and goes at it again full speed ahead. That certainly stops Simon's sniping; he's left half-coherent at best, all harsh breaths and spat curses that bleed into wordless moans and cries, growing sharper and longer and fiercer as Mason's movements do the same.

When Simon's breaths have grown so gasping and ragged and desperate that they're nearly sobs, when Mason's not sure he could stop that long again if he wanted to, he figures they've both got one more good thrust left, so he draws back farther, holds it just a moment longer -- and makes the final plunge with all the strength he's got.

That's nothing, though, compared to the double impact of the end of that plunge. As soon as he reaches the deepest point, pressed down flat against Simon, Simon cries out and arcs up off the desk so hard Mason fears for a moment they'll fall off. But the fear only lasts an instant before a tidal wave slams through him, all his pent-up rage and frustration and nerve and desire and power crashing into him at once, and the whole world is only Simon's sweaty flesh as Mason bites his shoulder, the blood red behind his eyelids, the deep wracking of his body, flooding Simon as Simon collapses under him. And then there is only their duet of panting, not quite in time with each other.

When Simon can speak again, he gasps, "For that you're getting a promotion and as big a bonus as I can wangle." Then he catches his breath a little and adds, "For a raise, though, you're going to have to do this again sometime."

Mason doesn't have Simon's stubbornness. His bones seem to have melted, and with them his resolve. There's spineless for you, he supposes. All he can do is lie there and breathe. He notices, though, that Simon came all over the week's worth of work on his desk, and so he gloats, too, without speaking, because some schadenfreude is best enjoyed in silence.

It occurs to Mason then that he'll have to find a way to explain the results of this to Erin, how it happened that the guy who's always mutually hated his guts gave him a promotion and a bonus. He supposes he could try saying they reached a new understanding -- after an uncomfortable encounter, he'll add, to make it sound more realistic -- and then he realizes this is actually not far from the truth. Simon pipes up again saying he'll be sore for a week, but he doesn't sound as if he really regrets it, and neither, in truth, does Mason. On the contrary, he's already enjoying the thought. As he's sure Simon can attest to, there's just something sexy about schadenfreude.


End file.
